End of Messages
by Tobias Charity
Summary: "I'm not sure of anything anymore, because the phone rang." Slash--Jack/Mike. Sequel to No Complaints


Title: End of Messages  
  
Author: Tobias Charity  
  
Rating: PG-13, a *very* strong PG-13. Because of language and slashy elements, etc.  
  
Pairing: Jack/Mike (That's right, SLASH. In other words, two grown men in a homosexual relationship. You don't like? Go check out Chess or Specifics.)  
  
Sequel/Series: Sequel to No Complaints, fifth in my as of yet untitled series.  
  
Summary: "I'm not sure of anything anymore, because the phone rang."  
  
Disclaimer: They're not mine. Dick Wolf graciously (if unconsciously) let's me borrow them and play with them as long as I return them in one piece, albeit a tad sticky and disheveled.  
  
Acknowledgements: To T. Forde, for all the Chinese food. And to Mary Sue.  
  
Author's Notes: Mary Sue may take complete credit for planting the plotbunny in the first place. All I did was water it and make it grow.  
  
In the end, nothing matters. Nothing matters at all. It doesn't matter how much money you have, how many perps you put away, how many people you loved, how many people loved you. We all die and are buried; we all wind up in the exact same place.  
  
There's no such thing as hell. Frankly, I don't believe there's such a thing as heaven. This is it. This is all we get. You fuck it up, it's your one chance to go back and make things right. You're not going to get a second try at life.  
  
You go back and make things right. You go back and apologize, go back and plead forgiveness. If it's not in your nature, well, everyone goes against their nature at some point.  
  
I spent six long, horrible years in a shit hole because of my pride. It wasn't that I didn't want to go back. Hell, I would've given anything to see him again. I was just too ashamed to go crawling back to him. Mike Logan doesn't crawl.  
  
Yeah, see? Pride. Pride goeth before a fall. And I fell hard.  
  
And then someone picked me up, dusted me off, set me back on my feet, and then betrayed me.  
  
I've already stated in this running chain of thought that Jack called me, not the other way around. Jack was the one who invited me up for a few days. I spent Christmas and New Years with him, and New Years was when I found out what he had done.  
  
You just don't go bedding men that have scorned your lover. It's just a line you don't cross, a taboo you don't break.  
  
Jack had gone out to pick up some food, claiming that I was rubbing off on him and the next thing he knew all that would be in the fridge would be three week old Chinese food. It had been snowing for some time, and by the time he'd been gone for an hour, a thick blanket of flakes covered every available surface outdoors. Traffic was crawling at a snail's pace or slower, and he'd called me from his cell phone and told me not to expect him home for at least another hour. Snow patted at the window, flakes whirling and obscuring.  
  
I trusted the bastard with my secrets. I put every ounce of integrity and trust and caring into that relationship, and he dashes it to the floor without a care to me. And I trusted him, but now I'm not sure.  
  
I'm not sure of anything anymore.  
  
Because the phone rang. And I let the machine pick it up.  
  
"Jack, it's Ben. I'm in the city until Monday. Call me at the Marriott; we've got to talk soon." That sweet, lilting, breathy voice.  
  
Ben.  
  
Ben Stone.  
  
Ben Stone calling Jack.  
  
What do Ben Stone and Jack have to talk about that's so important, so important that Ben can call at 9:30 at night and leave a message, identifying himself by his first name only?  
  
Something is amiss.  
  
And that is why I'm here, I'm still here waiting up at 10:15, still here on the couch watching the snowflakes pirouetting in the rasping wind, still here even though Jack called fifteen minutes ago and told me to go to sleep, go to sleep, I'll be back soon and we'll have a stir-fry for breakfast.  
  
Oh, Jack. Buy your stir-fry, drive home slowly, live in your innocent, carefree mind for a few minutes longer.  
  
Because I fell again. And this time, you kicked dirt on my face, rubbed mud in my open wounds. And this time, I'll pick myself up on my own.  
  
The door opens and I jump up off the couch, knocking the beer bottle off the coffee table to the floor, where it shatters and splinters, glass shrapnel gouging into the bare wood of the floor.  
  
Jack squints, blinks at me, the dim light from the streetlamps outside casting eerie shadows over his sharp features. "Mike? You're still up?" Stumbles into the room, weighed down by grocery bags.  
  
I take a bag from him and set it on the counter, and then silently press the answering machine's button.  
  
--beep--  
  
--One message in your mailbox--  
  
"Jack, it's Ben. I'm in the city until Monday. Call me at the Marriott; we've got to talk soon."  
  
--beep--  
  
--End of messages--  
  
The bags fall to the table, tumble from Jack's limp arms and he collapses into a chair, hiding his face in his hands. "Mike...Mike..."  
  
"Jack...Jack..." I mock. "What have you got to talk about, Jack? What have you got to say for yourself?"  
  
He stands up, sweeps the packages and cans back into the plastic bags and slings them onto the counter, then trudges silently over to the couch. Sits, pats at the coshin next to him, an invitation to sit nearer. I don't move.  
  
"Mike...I can explain...it sort of..."  
  
"It sort of what, Jack?" I explode, taking a step forward and clenching my fists. "It sort of just happened, right? Just how we sort of just happened?" I gesture between the two of us, and watch Jack's face crumple.  
  
"Just how we went out for beers, just how we shared a cab, and just how I ended up in your apartment, your lips on mine? Just how we agreed to never talk about it after that, just how I couldn't keep from thinking about you, just how I knew that all of those hang ups on my answering were from you. Just how--"  
  
He interrupts me, jumping up from the couch, surprisingly agile for a man of his age. "Just how I convinced myself that you were the king of one night stands, just how I convinced myself that a second date was out of the question, just how we ended up in an eight month relationship, and just how you're here right now, pissed at me because I had sex with a man that you supposedly could care less about!"  
  
"Oh, so you *did* sleep with him?" I say angrily, feeling cruel and vindictive and jealous.  
  
"Mike, oh God, Mike..." Desperation fills Jack's voice, hopelessness weighing down every syllable. "You're not the jealous type, Mike...what happened to you?"  
  
"I grew up," I spit furiously. "I grew up and found out what the real world was like."  
  
"So don't you think that before getting all pissed off and storming out of here in a jealous rage and having a repeat of four years ago, don't you think that maybe you should let me explain? Don't you think--" Jack continues, raising a hand to cut me off when I start to speak. "Don't you think that you should at least find out why Stone left in the first place, and what we have to talk about at all?"  
  
That takes all the wind out of my sails. It occurs to me that I don't know what had prompted Stone's departure. "We-ell..."  
  
"Sit." He points at the couch, and I silently comply. He flops down next to me, wrapping an arm around my shoulders; I contemplate flinching, just to put him off, but decide that enough damage has been done tonight.  
  
"You know about the Martin case, right?"  
  
I mentally dig through the cases in my head, and then the name clicks. "Theodore Martin, the Latin Rapist? The one that got off because of Stone?"  
  
Jack smiles briefly. "Mind like a steel trap. The one and only. He raped and murdured another girl, and I tried the case. Stone came up and testified in front of a grand jury about the previous case, and well..."  
  
"Well?"  
  
He says nothing for a long moment, and he's got this distant look in those obsidian eyes of his, like he's reliving the testimony and the events that followed. I nudge him slightly and he shakes his head, like he's coming out of a trance. "Well. You know Stone; he's straighter than a flag pole. So naturally--"  
  
"You wanted to screw him," I inject, a trace of bitterness in my voice.  
  
Jack raises one formidable eyebrow. "Well, I was going to say that he naturally presented a challenge to me, but yes, I supposed your wording works too."  
  
"Is there a point to this, Jack?"  
  
He exhales heavily and fiddles with a loose thread on his shirt. "I'm getting there, Mike. Ben and I went out for drinks and...well."  
  
"Back to the well thing, are we?"  
  
"Let me ask you a question," he says sharply, turning on me, one accusing finger half an inch from my chest. "Those five years you were down there. Did you suddenly take a vow of celebacy, Mike? After we'd basically terminated our relationship? Don't dare tell me that your bed was empty every single night, because frankly, I'm not going to believe you."  
  
"Sure, I screwed other people, Jack. But I can tell you one thing: none of them had a past history with you!" My temper is rising furiously, and I am so sick of the careful dance we've been doing around each other the entire time I've been here.  
  
"What, Stone was suddenly your personal property just because he'd rejected you?" Jack sneers eyes flashing dangerously. "What past history, Mike? You were a detective whose cases went to that ADA. End of story."  
  
"Just keep talking about that little fling of yours, McCoy," I snap. "Because I'm dying to know what it was in you that Stone found so fucking attractive."  
  
Jack suddenly grabs my shoulders and presses his lips to mine, then deepens the kiss and runs his tongue along the roof of my mouth. Just as suddenly as he started, he pulls away, crosses his arms and smiles smugly at me. "There's your answer."  
  
I smirk. "Yeah, so...yeah." I'm at a rare loss for words.  
  
Jack slides an arm around my shoulders and pulls me closer to him. "Don't get me wrong, Mike, I loved you dearly the entire time we were together. I missed you desperately the entire time you were gone. But people move on; you learn new things. Same as you said you grew up and found out what the real world was like, I found out that there were other things besides work out there."  
  
I lean my head against his chest and roll my eyes. "You're getting soppy on me, McCoy."  
  
He snickers and musses up my hair cheerfully. "Ah, you know you like it. Anyways, you wanna keep on harping on the Stone thing?"  
  
I shake my head. "You know, the Irish hold grudges. At least, that's what's always been said. But I'm over it. Like that." I snap my fingers. "But, well, the idea took some getting used to. Letting go of the whole concept of Stone in your bed--"  
  
"On my couch," Jack interjects, but I ignore him.  
  
"But I'm over it, or as over it as I can be. I have one day left in this city, and I aim to enjoy it."  
  
"Gonna visit Briscoe?" Jack asks, changing the subject suddenly.  
  
I shake my head. "Nah. He doesn't wanna see me. I didn't offer him that much support when..."  
  
"...Cathy died..."  
  
"Yeah, and I betrayed the force, y'know? Punching out the councilman. He doesn't wanna talk."  
  
"But I do." Jack touches his lips to my cheek, then trails along my jaw line to my neck. He nips lightly at the hollow of my throat, then plucks anxiously at the fabric of my shirt. "Off. C'mon, take it off."  
  
"God, I love you..." I pin him back up against the arm of the couch, and shortly thereafter we're back in the familiar bed.  
  
"Know what?" Jack says, wrapping his arms around me and pulling me closer to him, once we're deep in the throes of post-coital affection. "I think I love you too." 


End file.
